


'tis the damn season

by NoStringsOnMe



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Christmas, Exes, Flirting, Getting Back Together, Grief/Mourning, Kid Fic, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Past Steve Rogers/Lorraine, Pining, Rebecca Barnes/OFC, Sibling Love and Support, Some Fluff, Steve has a kid, i promise this is wholesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28288374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoStringsOnMe/pseuds/NoStringsOnMe
Summary: “Bucky? Is that you?”Bucky froze, his hand poised over his cell. That voice. He’d know that voice anywhere. It was rich and deep and so familiar it sent a tidal wave of memories crashing through him. His heart jumped into overdrive and it battered against his ear drums as he swiveled slowly in his seat to look up into the face of StevemotherfuckingRogers.“Steve?” He could feel his mouth hanging open. Not a good look. He snapped it shut with a click and stumbled to his feet to offer him a hand. “Shit. Hey, man. How are ya? It’s been a while.”Eight years. It had been almost eight years. Not that Bucky had been counting. But it was hard not to remember the date your beloved boyfriend of four years broke up with you when it just so happened to be your little sister’s birthday and Christmas Eve all rolled into one.|| Or the one where, in the aftermath of his ma's death, Bucky reconnects with his ex over the holidays. And not just any ex. Steve. But Steve has a kid now. And Bucky's still grieving. It should be a recipe for disaster. Unless?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Rebecca Barnes Proctor, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 108
Kudos: 210





	1. there's an ache in you put there by the ache in me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalee60](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalee60/gifts), [darter_blue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darter_blue/gifts).



> So me, [Kalee60](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalee60/pseuds/Kalee60), and [darter-blue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darter_blue) are BAK at it again with another prompt challenge! This time with a festive spin!  
> The prompt: **mistletoe**
> 
> At first, I didn't know what to do, then Taylor Swift released evermore and was like, "Hey, remember what it was like to yearn?" And thus, this fic was born. I even stole the title and chapter titles from her. But you didn't hear that from me. ;)
> 
> I hope you all like it. It's been an absolute blast to write.
> 
> Major props and thanks go out to [darter-blue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darter_blue) for her beta work and to [steveandbucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/steveandbucky/pseuds/steveandbucky) for not only her beta work but her constant championing and cheerleading of this fic these past few days. She also made the incredible movie poster you see below and allowed me to dream of this being the gay holiday movie of the year.
> 
> The rebloggable tumblr post complete with movie poster can be found [here](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com/post/638398421439578112/well-me-darter-blue-and-kalee60-are-bak-at-it).

“We’re going to have to sell the house.”

Bucky winced. He’d been expecting that but to hear it put so plainly was still difficult to hear. It was November, rainy and miserable grey, and he and his sister, Becca, were crammed into a window booth at Friday’s diner surrounded by piles of paper and half-eaten sandwiches. Despite the fact he knew that he should be hungry, Bucky hadn’t managed more than a few bites. 

He jittered, however--the telltale sign of too much caffeine. Bucky’s throat was scratchy from it, his teeth felt fuzzy from it, his mouth tasted stale from it, but still, he downed cup after cup like it was his very lifeblood. Maybe it was. It sure had been these past few weeks. He rubbed at his tired eyes with his wrist.

“I know,” Bucky huffed, slouching and reading over the figures in front of him for what felt like the thousandth time. 

It was all enough to make his head spin. He didn’t feel qualified for this. He didn’t feel _old_ enough for this. What did he know about realtors and title deeds? He was a cyber security consultant. His domain lay squarely in the realms of weak firewalls and running scripts. But his sister was right. Neither of them could afford to keep it on their own. The most stubborn parts of him insisted that it would be possible, that there would be some loophole somewhere that they’d missed, but in his heart of hearts, he knew the truth. Then, just to drive the point home, he glanced at the numbers again. Yep. There it all was in black and white. There was no getting around it. His stomach bottomed out. 

“In the New Year, okay?” Bucky knocked his knee to Becca’s under the table and caught her worried, grey-eyed gaze. “Let’s just get Christmas out of the way first.”

But Becca grimaced, running a hand through her hair. It was dark, chestnut brown like his, but much shorter: she favoured a short back and sides with long, loosely permed curls on top whereas Bucky had grown his hair out at 18 and never looked back. They were very alike, the two of them. They could have been identical had a few details not been warped. They shared the same sharp cheekbones, grey eyes, and cleft chin. But Becca was just a little softer around the edges. 

“About that, Bertie invited us over for Christmas,” she said, dropping her chin and twisting at the silver rings she wore on each of her fingers like she expected him to be annoyed by the offer.

“Bernadette doesn’t celebrate Christmas,” he stated as if his sister wouldn’t already know that her girlfriend was Jewish. Becca rolled her eyes.

“That’s the point.” 

Yeah, Bucky supposed it was. He wasn’t thrilled about the upcoming holiday season either. In fact, there was a dearth of festive cheer and he’d spent the past four hours blocking out the sound of Christmas songs playing over the diner’s jukebox. His sister slumped back in her seat and crossed her arms. 

“I just—look, she said she’s finally going to teach me how to make matzo ball soup ‘the right way’. It’s kind of a big deal.” 

From across the table, Bucky mirrored her posture and raised an eyebrow. 

“Is that the standard return for when your ma dies?” he quipped. Becca huffed a laugh. 

“Oh yeah. If you want to off yourself then I reckon I could wrangle her bubbi’s chocolate challah recipe out of her.”

He snorted and swirled the contents of his cup around.

“I’ll schedule it in for just before next Christmas? How’s that? You can make it for your 30th.”

“Perfect,” she said, smirking. “I’ll hold you to that.”

There was a beat of silence that grew into a lull and Bucky caught his sister’s eye. The smirk slid off her face and her lip wobbled as tears welled. She swallowed and hugged herself. A gulf stretched out between them and the enormity of everything rushed at Bucky till it made his chest seize. Despite the hubbub of the diner, its growing holiday surge, none of it reached them. It was like listening to your parents throw a dinner party downstairs while you’re supposed to be in bed asleep: muffled and far away. Though it held none of the warmth and safety that Bucky remembered from his childhood, at least he had Becca. That, at least, wasn’t about to change.

Bucky dropped his eyes to the table and he reached for a paper napkin and began to shred it into tiny pieces just for something to do with his hands. Each piece he rolled into a tight ball between thumb and forefinger. A frown had settled across his face, carved deep into the lines of his forehead. His own tears went unshed, blurring his vision till everything swam.

“It won’t be the same and I can’t sit there and pretend otherwise.” 

Bucky nodded, still staring, unseeing, at his hands. “Me neither. A Christmas free Christmas then.” He paused. He sighed. He sighed with his whole damn chest because it _hurt_ \--more than any hurt he’d ever felt before. “Tell her we’ll be there.” 

From across the table, Becca let out a shaky breath that rattled Bucky’s soul.

She had to leave after that and she collected all the pieces of herself she’d let scatter and bundled them up in her shearling denim jacket. It was a sight to see, the way she swapped tears for composure. Bucky envied her. She could wobble for a moment before righting herself. For him, a wobble felt more akin to falling through a patch of thin ice and into the freezing river below where the waiting current would snatch him away never to be seen again.

Before she left, Becca paused at his side, dropped a warm hand to Bucky’s shoulder, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Her steady warmth seeped through his jumper to the skin below. 

Once she was gone, however, Bucky let his head fall into his hands, the phantom weight of his sister’s hand on his shoulder not quite enough to keep his emotions at bay. He pressed the heels into his eyes for a second just to feel the uncomfortable tingle of stars bursting across his blackened vision. His fingers curled into his hair, snagging on a few wind whipped knots.

He didn’t have time to lose it. Becca had her shit together. So should he. There would be plenty of time in the void between Christmas and New Year to mope and let all the shit he was juggling drop. But there were four long weeks stretched out in front of him until then. With a small, determined nod to himself, Bucky took a few deep breaths and rolled his shoulders. The existential crisis nudging at all his exposed edges would have to wait. He’d schedule it in for after dinner, perhaps.

The threat of his arm-length to-do list pulled him back to the diner. He had to call their lawyer and the bank before the end of the day. Pulling his notebook back towards him, Bucky began making notes. After a few minutes, the tightness in his chest eased and the heat across his skin dulled. With each stroke of the pen, his head grew clearer, calmer. It was as he was digging through his bag looking for his phone that he felt the prickle of a presence brush up against him.

“Bucky? Is that you?”

He froze, his hand poised over his cell. That voice. He’d know that voice anywhere. It was rich and deep and so familiar it sent a tidal wave of memories crashing through him. His heart jumped into overdrive and it battered against his ear drums as he swiveled slowly in his seat to look up into the face of Steve _motherfucking_ Rogers. 

“Steve?” He could feel his mouth hanging open. Not a good look. He snapped it shut with a click and stumbled to his feet to offer him a hand. “Shit. Hey, man. How are ya? It’s been a while.”

Eight years. It had been almost eight years. Not that Bucky had been counting. But it was hard not to remember the date your beloved boyfriend of four years broke up with you when it just so happened to be your little sister’s birthday _and_ Christmas Eve all rolled into one. 

Steve took Bucky’s outstretched hand. He gripped it and beamed. His blue eyes crinkled at him and his palm was warm from clutching at his takeout coffee cup. And goddammit, he looked good. Far better than Bucky. His peachy skin was flushed red from the cold, the tips of his ears and nose practically glowing, but behind that, he looked almost the same as the last time he’d seen him. Still tall. Still impossibly broad. Still looking at him with the softest expression. Still _Steve_. 

Except this one had a thick blonde beard and there were more lines around his eyes and settled deep into his forehead. It suited him something terrible and maybe it was because Bucky was feeling sensitive, but the realisation twisted his stomach and made him want to hide himself away somewhere safe for a while.

“Yeah, I guess it has been, hasn’t it,” Steve said, dropping Bucky’s hand and looking sheepish. He rubbed the back of his neck like he always did when he felt awkward which gave Bucky the distinct impression that he hadn’t actually thought the decision to come and speak to him through, and knowing Steve, that was almost certainly the case. 

“I—uh—I’m sorry to hear about your ma,” he offered right as Bucky was manoeuvring himself back into his seat. It stopped him short for just a second and he hung his head.

“So you heard about that, huh?”

“Yeah. My—”

“—Ma?” Bucky cut in and Steve nodded, blue eyes wide. “Right, yeah, of course Sarah would know.”

Brooklyn was a small enough town. Of course she would. She might have even been at the funeral for all Bucky could remember of that day. 

“How are you holding up?”

“About as good as you’d expect,” he said with a shrug because there wasn’t a hope in hell that he was airing his dirty laundry to his ex. Sure, he might be feeling sensitive but he still had his pride. Steve fidgeted. He tugged on the strap of the camera bag slung over his shoulder, then ran his hand over his beard. Now that Bucky was seated again, and over the initial shock of seeing him, he noticed what he was wearing. A wicked grin curled across his lips. “Nice sweater. Very . . . _festive_.”

It was dark blue with a large, rather alarmed looking reindeer face on it and there was a sprig of mistletoe hanging between its antlers. It was quite the contrast to the very sensible, charcoal grey wool peacoat and white collared shirt he wore with it. As if Steve had forgotten he was even wearing the sweater, he looked down, cheeks washing pink. 

“My—uh—” he cleared his throat “—my daughter picked it out.”

Was there a limit to the number of times a person’s stomach could bottom out in the span of a single hour? Because Bucky really wanted to know.

“Of course. You have a kid now,” Bucky stated, like this was a piece of information he could only just recall, or if it was news to him. It wasn’t. They still had mutual friends, word got around. “How old is she?”

“She’ll be seven in January,” Steve rasped, hand at the back of his neck once more.

Bucky looked up at him. He tried to keep his face neutral, passive, but he could feel the way his mouth twisted. It wasn’t a sneer. Not quite. But god, did that old wound hurt more than he was expecting it to. He knew that Steve wasn’t with the mother anymore but that was beside the point.

Steve glanced at his watch and cursed. He offered Bucky an apologetic smile. “Speaking of whom, I actually have to go meet her and her mom across town,” he explained. “But I’m really glad I bumped into you. We should catch up, go for a drink.”

Before Bucky could say anything, Steve pulled a business card from his wallet, bent over the table and scrawled his cell number on the back with a flourish. He was so close. It gave Bucky the perfect view of the tiny tattoo of a celtic knot behind his ear. It was placed right on a spot that Bucky had pressed his lips to more times than he could count. Surprise shot through him.

“Well, that’s new,” he thought, dumbly. Steve had never given any indication of wanting tattoos before. But then he’d never given any indication he’d wanted a kid either so who was Bucky to claim that he had any kind of insight into the guy’s life. After all, a lot could change in eight years. Yet, caught in that moment, Bucky felt like he knew him again. Just for a second. Like deja vu. It was something about him leaning into his space and being close enough to feel the heat rolling off his still pinkened skin. 

But then he was gone. He straightened and Bucky watched how the colour in his cheeks deepened as he handed over the card. 

“Call me. Please?” 

He sounded so goddamn earnest with his face all scrunched up and imploring that Bucky, without even realising he was doing it, nodded. Steve’s shoulders dropped and he smiled, backing up with a ‘see you later, Buck’. The way he smiled around his name, raised the hair on the back of Bucky’s neck. He watched him go, trailed his eyes after that broad back till he was swallowed by the crowds. 

Damn. 

How had that happened?

In a daze, Bucky picked up the card and stared. He handled it by its edges like it was a bomb about to go off. It was light grey with dark writing and a matching border around the edge. _Steve Rogers_ , it read, _Star Spangled Photography_ . Underneath was a business email and phone number. Well, it seemed that Bucky had not one, not two, but _three_ different ways of getting in touch with him. 

Which was never going to happen. 

Because Bucky wasn’t going to call him. They had gone eight years without seeing one another since Steve had had the spectacular idea to break up with him. Hell, they could probably go another eight. Bucky didn’t owe him shit. Yet even as he stared at the card and willed his fingers to crush it, or tear it into tiny pieces, he found that he couldn’t. So he stowed it in his wallet and made a concentrated effort to forget that it was there. 

He did not succeed.

The meeting with Steve played over and over in Bucky’s head for the rest of the day. He kept coming back to it. It was there in the peripheries as he phoned the bank and the lawyer. It was there as he walked back to his apartment from Friday’s. It was there as he lay on the sofa eating whatever he’d made for dinner, decidedly not watching the movie he’d put on Netflix.

As distractions went, it wasn’t half bad. In a near all-consuming way. He welcomed it. It made a change from constantly thinking about his ma and the empty brownstone over in Bed-Stuy. So, he indulged his curiosity and did the thing you’re not supposed to do: stalk your ex on social media. As the film started to reach its climax, Bucky pulled the business card from his wallet and googled ‘star spangled photography’. The first result was a website which had the same light grey colouring as the card.

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up. He didn’t know what he’d expected, something serious and deeply arty probably, but that wasn’t what he found. Steve had a broad portfolio from weddings to bar mitzvahs to large scale events, and he favoured a warm, bright style, not dark, moody like Bucky had been expecting. It brought each shot to life and drew you in. Made you want to look harder and find every little detail. Yet what struck Bucky most as he flicked through each album were the people. It was people at the centre of every single photograph and that made him smile. 

“Guess you haven’t changed that much have you, Stevie,” Bucky muttered to his empty living room, shaking his head.

Once he’d explored the entire site right down to the FAQ page that declared Steve ‘a true Brooklyn boy at heart who could never stay away for long’, Bucky clicked through to his instagram. Much like the website, it was very polished and professional, showcasing extra images that hadn’t made the cut for the website, but it didn’t tell Bucky much about _him_. So he went searching and hoped that Steve wasn’t a stickler for privacy. He found him via Sam Wilson, a mutual friend from college who now worked in the accounting department of the very same cybersecurity firm Bucky worked for. From there, he didn’t have to go far. 

To the second picture, in fact. There were Steve and Sam at some kind of concert with their arms slung around each other, beer bottles tilted up to the camera. Mouths open and eyes bright, they appeared to be singing. Orange and red neon lights criss-crossed their faces which turned Sam’s dark brown complexion golden but washed Steve out completely. It was still a good photo. They looked happy. The caption provided Bucky with the necessary handle and he found Steve’s page. 

It was public--and carefully curated. Bucky smiled as he scrolled, flicking past all the pictures of New York in the fall. Even on his personal account, he favoured the same cosy style, saturated and leaning towards earthy browns and oranges. There were pictures with Sam at bars that erred on the side of pretentious, others with Natasha Romanoff, the acerbic redhead that had been nothing but a pain in Bucky’s ass for the four years he and Steve had been together because she’d known Steve longer than him and liked to hold that over his head. He’d liked her though, liked her taste in rum even more. As Bucky scrolled, however, he noticed that a small blonde child cropped up again and again. His daughter. Niamh. The one who’d picked out the reindeer sweater. But for all the pictures of her, there wasn’t a single one of her face. Steve had been deliberate about only ever posting pictures of her back, of her in silhouette, of her so far away it was impossible to pick out the details of her face. 

But then, one picture stopped him in his tracks. It was dated from around six months before and stood out amongst all the outdoorsy summer shots as a black and white portrait. A blonde woman with an angular face, porcelain skin, and wide brown eyes stared straight into the camera. She had a finger curled slightly around her bottom lip and she was smirking. Lorraine. Bucky knew her face well. He’d tortured himself looking at enough pictures of her back when he heard Steve had found a new girlfriend so soon after they’d broken up. 

_“There are few occasions you’ll ever let me take your portrait like this”_ the caption read, _“but I couldn’t let your 30th pass by without marking it with something special. Knowing you these past 8 years has brought so much light and love into my life. Thanks for putting up with my bullshit. See you tonight where I expect a roasting for getting sappy on socials but I won’t apologise for it. x”_

Since he was a glutton for punishment, Bucky clicked through to Lorraine’s profile but it was private. It was probably for the best but her bio gave him a laugh.

 _“Avocado at law_ 🥑

 _Perpetually tired._ 😴

 _Supremely uncool._ 👉😎👉 _”_

It didn’t tell him much but at least she seemed to have a sense of humour and, Bucky noted, she had Steve’s portrait of her as her profile picture. 

Bucky sighed and let his phone fall onto his chest. The movie had long since finished and thumbnails for other films he might like scrolled past on his TV screen but he ignored them. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, one arm slung behind his head for support and tried to work out how he felt. 

Upended. 

More so than usual. Seeing the life Steve had built for himself was odd because for several years Bucky had been so sure that that was a life he would get to be a part of. He’d seen it so clearly. They’d had plans. There had been places they’d wanted to see together. The Grand Canyon. New Zealand. Berlin. The list was endless. 

After he graduated from college, Bucky had travelled out west to see the Grand Canyon for himself and he’d actually used the beat up guidebook that Steve had left forgotten on his book shelf. All his margin scribblings were still there, the doodles too, and the circled recommendations. Tucked into the back was an itinerary with ‘Steeb and Borky’s Grand Canyon Grand Tour’ scribbled at the top. It was painfully detailed, written out in Steve’s loopy handwriting. In the end, he had followed it almost to the letter. They had put so much effort into it, it had seemed like a waste not to follow through and, even though it had been several years since they’d seen each other, Bucky thought of him almost every day while travelling. Every time he looked down at the crashing river or up at the night sky, it felt like there was a tiny bit of Steve right there next to him. 

Because people don’t ever truly leave you, even when they do.

~*~

"You'll never guess who I bumped into the other day." 

Bucky had been aiming for nonchalant but he’d overshot it and ended up sounding high pitched and anxious. Mentally, he kicked himself. It had been four days since he’d bumped into Steve and every day since then, he’d tried to find an opening to tell his sister about it but hadn’t quite known how to bring it up and still sound casual. 

They were spending the day packing up their ma’s bedroom, sorting through clothes and jewellery, and deciding what to keep, donate, or sell. Becca stood by the wardrobe, flipping through the hangers with half filled garbage bags at her feet, and Bucky was across the room in front of the vanity. In the mirror, his face was pinched, skin sallow. 

"Joan Didion?" Becca mused and glanced over her shoulder, a decidedly uninterested look on her face. Bucky started, caught off guard. 

"Joan--? Becca, no. _Why_ would I have met Joan Didion?" Bucky shook his head and tugged a jewellery filled drawer open. It was crammed full and practically overflowing.

"Because,” Becca said, drawing out the word and tugging a dress from the wardrobe to hold up to the light. “If you'd met Joan Didion it would actually be noteworthy and worth whatever anxiety this meeting has clearly caused you to bring it up in the first place. You've tried to start this conversation three times already." 

So she’d caught that had she. Bucky scowled and pelted his sister with what he hoped was a fake pearl earring. She caught it with an irritating deftness and gave him her sweetest smile before popping the earring through the empty third piercing on her left ear. The dress she tossed into the garbage bag to be donated.

“Shaddup.”

Becca poked her tongue out.

"Shan't." There was a beat of silence before she piped up again. "Out with it then. Who was it?" 

Bucky contemplated just not telling her and letting her stew for a bit but then he took a breath and rolled his shoulders. He kept his gaze fixed on the bracelets, and earrings, and necklaces tangled up in a nasty snarl. 

"Steve Rogers.”

"You're kidding."

"In the flesh."

"Damn." She whistled. "That rat bastard still as good looking as ever?"

Bucky snorted.

"I doubt even a shovel to the face would put a dent in the guy."

Becca laughed and pulled him from the room to get a cup of tea. They needed a break, she said, and that might have been true but Bucky knew his sister and he knew that all she wanted was to sit down and get every last scrap of information from him that she could. He was right, of course. She waited all of two seconds once they’d sat down with steaming mugs in their hands to ask what had happened. He told her, not that there was much to tell, and she listened. She nodded into the lip of her mug, brow furrowed, as he spoke. Her eyes flickered to his face every so often, analysing him. 

They quickly exhausted their first mugs of tea and the extent to which Bucky had actually spoken to Steve.

"You gonna call him?" 

"Fuck no," Bucky retorted, kicking his sister’s foot with his own. But then he relented and shrugged. "I don’t know. And before you say anything, it's nothing to do with what happened before. It's ancient history.”

Becca didn’t look convinced and she raised an eyebrow. 

“Really,” he insisted. “I don't care. Besides, we have so much to do here. I don't need the distractions."

“ _Sure_. Whatever you say, Bucky.”

They dropped the subject after that but it swirled around Bucky's brain as he packed box after box of his mother’s possessions. He didn’t care. That was the truth. But in a complicated way. He’d made his peace with what had happened between them--he’d had to--but that didn’t stop some very small and very loud part of him from wanting to reach out again. Somehow, life had brought them back into one another’s orbit. Surely that had to mean something? 

Or it could mean nothing. It could just mean Steve had stumbled into Friday’s because he needed a cup of coffee and stopped to speak of him out of courtesy. He was being polite. That was the most likely excuse. It was Steve being nice in the way that folks are nice to someone they haven't seen in a while. That made more sense than some cosmic power shoving them back into each other’s path. But then, most folks don't pass out their cards and make sure to pass on their personal cell phone numbers to their ex. 

Whatever. It didn't matter.


	2. it always leads to you in my hometown

Bucky put the whole ordeal out of his head and after a few days had almost forgotten about the encounter. The card was at the bottom of his waste paper basket with the rest of the trash and he'd got on with his life. And life was full of firewalls to test and long, tedious phone calls with lawyers about what to do with his ma’s house. 

The good thing about Bucky’s job was that, more often than not, he got to work from home. Schlepping his way into the city for work was one of his most hated things to do. The more time he could spend in his home office the better. 

It was a cushy set up with a huge desk, an obscenely expensive, custom-built PC, and a double width curved monitor. He didn’t have that in the office at work. The monitor there was a paltry 21 inches. At least at home he was free to run his programs and write his code and go on coffee runs to Friday’s whenever he wanted. 

“No, Tony. We can’t do that. If we do that, it’s going to cost the client almost triple the amount they’re willing to pay,” sighed Bucky down the phone. He paced his office, weak December sunlight filtering through the half shut blinds. “I know because I asked them...Well, you’re welcome to ask them yourself and get back to me but I have to run this program for the next three hours either way.”

The man on the other end of the line grumbled and griped about better ways to test what their client wanted, all of which Bucky already knew, by the way, but he let him continue for a few more minutes before insisting that he really did have to go. He set everything up, waited for ten minutes to make sure that everything was running as it should, then grabbed his jacket and headed out. After that conversation he really, really,  _ really _ needed a cup of coffee. 

December had started to bite. The rain and drizzle of November had given way to a frosty chill that turned Bucky’s breath into foggy plumes with every exhale. He hurried down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians as he went. By the time he reached Friday’s his hands were red and his thighs were numb in his jeans.

The diner was a welcome reprieve. The windows were foggy and every table was full. Waitresses toed-and-froed carrying laden trays above their heads,seemingly able to fit through the smallest gaps with practiced ease. Conversations blurred into a pleasant hubbub that Bucky let wash up against him as he waited in line. It buoyed his mood and he allowed himself to hum along to Jingle Bell Rock. However, someone clearly was messing with the jukebox because Bucky was certain that this was the third time it had played in a row since he’d come in.

“What’s this? I don’t see you for eight years and then I see you twice in as many weeks. And in the same place no less.”

_ Fuck _ . Bucky stiffened. His humming died in his throat. There was an undercurrent of laughter cut through that voice that had Bucky hitching an attempt at a smile on his face as he pivoted on his heel. 

Steve looked delighted to see him. His eyes were already crinkled and he had a lopsided grin plastered all over that dumb face of his. It punched him straight in the gut. Bucky swallowed around the lump in his throat. Couldn’t he catch a break?

“Hey pal, this is my turf.  _ I _ come here all the time,” he said. It came out brusque, snappish, and Steve’s bright smile faltered just enough for Bucky to immediately regret it. He let himself go loose and retrieved the kind of easy grin he used to use on customers back when he worked at Macy’s. “If anyone is doing the stalking here then it’s you,” he added, aiming for lighter and throwing in a chuckle for good measure.

It only sounded somewhat phony but Steve’s smile amped itself up to full power in seconds. He held up both his hands and ducked his head. 

“Okay, you got me. I actually just moved into an apartment a few blocks over, was hoping to make this my regular.”

Was that so? Bucky shot him an incredulous look and shook his head, twisting to glance up at the menu board overhead. He tapped a finger to his chin.

“Hmm, no can do, you’re going to have to find someplace else. I’ve already claimed this one.”

Steve chuckled and shook his head. It looked like he was about to shoot back some witty retort when--

“Do we have to go, Daddy?” The voice came from behind Steve’s right hip, quickly followed by a pouting face poking out around him. Steve shifted and hustled the child till she stood in front of him and she had to crane to look up at him with her huge blue eyes. She wore a chunky, multi-coloured knit hat with a bobble the size of Bucky’s hand.

“No sweetheart, Bucky here was just joking, weren’t you?” Steve gave him a pointed look over the girl’s head and Bucky softened. He nodded. “This is Niamh. Will you say hello, Niamh?”

“Hello,” the girl parroted. She gazed up at him, head cocked and mouth twisted like she was deciding if he could be trusted. It made Bucky smile. He was almost certain he’d seen Steve pull the same face a thousand times or more. And she looked just like him--all for the nose. It was sharp and had a ski slope tip whereas Steve’s was long and a bit bent out of shape. 

Bucky crouched and held out his hand.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Niamh. I would never keep you out, the cookies here are far too good,” he said and the girl giggled into her scarf as she shook his hand. “Plus, you seem like a lovely girl. Your daddy on the other hand…”

He trailed off and grinned up at Steve, pressing his tongue into the hollow of his cheek and letting the end of his sentence hang dangerously in the air.

“Christ, Buck, you’re gonna get me in trouble here.” He tried to sound scolding. He even furrowed his brow and scowled, but it melted away, just slid right off his face, as he looked at Bucky. Then he laughed. It was a real Steve laugh: warmer than even the coffee scented air of the diner. The sound of it raised the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck and heated him through to his bones, like he hadn’t seen the sun in weeks. 

“Ach, I’m sorry,” he said, straightening. As he did, he saw that he was next in line.“Do you wanna get that drink now?”

It was out before Bucky could catch it. He’d had no intention of staying, or of talking to Steve for longer than they were in the queue, nevermind buying him a drink. Fate, it seemed, had other plans. Caught off guard, Steve’s mouth formed the perfect ‘o’.

“--You don’t have to--”

“--We were going to the park--”

Words garbled as they talked over one another, Bucky felt heat flood through him and he shifted from foot to foot. Steve rubbed the back of his neck.

“Want to come with us?” Steve offered, tugging a bag of frozen peas from his coat pocket. “We were going to feed the ducks.”

They held eye contact for a long, drawn out moment. Bucky’s throat was tight. Jingle Bell Rock swelled up against them, surely now on its 7th repeat. He could feel Steve’s daughter looking between them, confused and frowning. 

“What do you say?” 

The undisguised hope in his voice made Bucky’s decision for him.

“Sure.”

He bought them their drinks and a cookie for Niamh because if he knew anything about little kids, which admittedly wasn’t a whole lot, the best way to get in their good graces was through food. The ploy worked and she was delighted, finishing it in three huge bites despite the warning from her dad to slow down and chew. 

It was weird seeing him like this--in Dad Mode™. The Steve of his memory was carefree and had roiled with unbridled energy. He’d always been restless, never sitting still, his leg bouncing constantly, and forever doing something with his hands. This Steve was more controlled. As they walked to the subway to catch the train to Prospect Park and the ducks, he kept his body angled to wherever his daughter was, one arm always ready to shoot out and snatch her hood should she start to veer towards danger, perceived or otherwise. 

The walk and subsequent train ride were quiet. Bucky was completely tongue tied. Every time he went to open his mouth, he couldn’t. His tongue felt too big. He wanted to ask about Steve’s life, his job, or anything really, and the words pressed against his lips, banging at them to get out but something stopped him. They kept glancing at one another, but the second their eyes met, they darted away again. 

Maybe this was a terrible idea. If Becca were here, she’d give him an earful. She’d never let him hear the end of it. Bucky checked his phone to see if his programme had run into any errors. If it had, then he could duck out. Make his excuses and leave. Sure, he might not leave with any pride still in tact but at this point, maybe that was a lost cause. 

Bucky could feel Naimh watching him throughout their quiet train ride to Parkside Avenue Station. She had a very serious face when she wasn’t smiling. Her mouth pinched and her eyes went wide. It gave her a very solemn air. From the way she looked at him, he sensed that she had something to say to him. Something important, if her look was anything to go by. So Bucky waited to hear what it was.

“Bucky’s a strange name,” she declared as they climbed the steps back up to street level. Bucky bit back a laugh. Steve flushed beet red, looking mortified.

“Niamh! That’s not very nice.” 

“Don’t sweat it, man, it  _ is _ a weird name.” Niamh grinned back at him, puffing out her thin chest like she’d won a trophy at sport’s day. “Bet you’ve never met another Bucky.”

She shook her head, back to wearing the most serious expression he’d ever seen on an elementary schooler. They breached the surface and spilled out onto the sidewalk.

“I didn’t think so. We’re pretty rare. . . But you wanna know a secret?” He waggled his eyebrows and Niamh nodded, bouncing at his side. “S’not my real name.”

The girl gasped. Her easy excitement was infectious and Bucky laughed. Steve watched him now, eyes tracking between him and his daughter as they entered the park and made their way towards the lake.

“It’s a nickname,” he told her. “My name’s James Buchannan Barnes but everyone calls me Bucky.”

“Not everyone,” cut in Steve and Bucky knew by the glimmer in his eye exactly who he was talking about.

“Romanoff doesn't count,” he sniped. If it had just been them, he might have flipped him the bird like they used to do, but he thought better of it given their present company. He turned his attention back to Niamh. “So, what do you think? Think I look more like a James or more like a Bucky?”

She pondered this as they walked, scrutinising his face and rubbing her chin like an old master. Then she nodded, decision made.

“Bucky’s better.” And she sounded very matter of fact. She continued, “I know three Jameses in my class and they’re all buttheads, an’ I don’t think you’re a butthead.” 

“Niamh. What have I told you?” 

“Sorry, Daddy.” The response was immediate, learned, and an ongoing issue if the exasperated look on Steve’s face was anything to go by. Niamh pouted and scuffed her feet as she walked. “Can I go feed the ducks now, please?”

“Here, take the bag and don’t stand too close to the water.”

She took it and skipped off. They watched her go. Bucky drained the last of his coffee and glanced across at Steve. He was frowning, lips pursed and brow knitted together, thinking all manner of serious thoughts. Tossing his cup into a nearby garbage can, Bucky nudged his shoulder into Steve’s, a wolfish grin curling across his mouth.

“Apparently your daughter doesn’t think I’m a butthead.”

Steve ducked his head. A funny expression crossed his face that Bucky didn’t know how to interpret.

“So I heard,” he sighed, continuing to look out towards the water. They weren’t more than a few paces from her, well within leaping distance should anything go terribly wrong. Niamh was oblivious, content to throw handfuls of peas and sweetcorn and oats to the flock of ducks gathered around the bank. She giggled and kept telling them they had to wait their turn. “I’m sorry about her. Everyone’s a butthead right now.  _ Especially  _ mommy and daddy come bedtime. Public enemies number one and two.”

He sighed again and scratched his fingers through his beard. It was only now that he noticed the shadows underneath Steve’s eyes and the way his shoulders bowed. Although he still stood tall like he did before, he didn’t project outwards as much; he kept himself tight, much more inward. Mostly, he looked tired, Bucky thought.

“But do you agree? That’s the real question here. Tell me, am I to be banished to the land of exiled buttheads?”

Bucky nudged Steve’s shoulder again. And he had the terrifying realisation that it was because he wanted to see him smile. Part of him had registered that he didn’t like the look on Steve’s face and he wanted to get rid of it. He had to smile. And he had to smile because of Bucky. 

He’d almost not noticed himself doing it but falling back into that old habit was easy. Was he really that desperate?

But it worked. Sort of. Steve’s mouth hitched up on one side, his expression softened, and Bucky hated the way he loved it. 

“Shaddup,” he huffed, giving him a shove.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I know.”

“Are you gonna?”

Steve scrunched his face and mouthed, ‘nah’. Bucky rolled his eyes and debated if shoving his ex into a lake could really be frowned upon. Maybe if they were alone. In front of his kid might be a touch too far. 

They fell into a silence but unlike the one that had plagued them from the diner to the park, it wasn’t awkward. It was companionable. And familiar. 

Hadn’t they spent hours in silence at one time or another? There was a time when Bucky could read Steve’s silences like a book and he’d been able to know precisely what he was thinking--what he was feeling--just by the way he held himself. He’d have thought he didn’t have that skill anymore but even as they stood there, almost shoulder to shoulder, on a frosty December afternoon, Bucky could see a certain sadness tinging the air around him. 

Once he noticed it, the silence quickly became unbearable. Bucky scrambled for something to say.

“So you just moved--?”

“Niamh’s school is in the area.”

Oh. Well, that made sense. Of course he’d move to be closer to his daughter’s school. Why wouldn’t he? It was practical. 

“And you’re a photographer?”

This time Steve did actually smile, even managed a small chuckle, and nodded. Bucky ignored the way it made his insides soar and the quick, unfurling roll of satisfaction down his spine. 

“Last I heard, you were off to become some pencil pushing financial drone.”

“I was for a while _. Hated _ it. I lasted all of, oh, about two months.” Steve shrugged and motioned for Niamh to come back to them and the girl sprinted over, grinning from ear to ear and flushed a brilliant red that wasn’t just from the cold. When she launched herself at her dad, he caught her without missing a beat. He grinned across at Bucky. “Turns out I’m a really bad employee.”

“You never did like taking orders,” Bucky snorted. 

Steve inclined his head in Bucky’s direction, biting back a laugh, before turning his attention to his daughter. She was chattering into his ear about how one of the ducks came so close it brushed right up against her leg. Well, that was New York City wildlife for you, as brazen they come. 

With the bag of duck feed now finished there was talk of swings. Steve gave his daughter a huge bear hug that made her giggle before plonking her back on the ground and pointing her in the direction of a nearby playpark with a fond, ‘off you go, limpet’. Niamh didn’t need to be told twice. She barreled towards the park, making a beeline straight to an empty swing. 

Bucky nodded after her. “She seems like a great kid. You must be real proud.”

“Yeah. She’s a better person than I am. Although, I think that’s all Lorraine’s handiwork.”

“Stop fishing for compliments on your parenting skills.”

“It was worth a shot,” Steve chuckled.

They stood and watched Niamh play for a while, settling back into a comfortable silence. That was until Bucky felt his phone vibrate against his leg. He shot Steve an apologetic look and dug it out. Naimh, who had run back over in an attempt to pull them into one of her games, stood on her tiptoes to peer at his screen. There was a message forwarded from his PC.

“Aw shi-ugar. I have to go. My programme’s run into an error. I’m sorry.” Gesturing at his phone, Bucky was already starting to back away, extracting himself from Steve’s warmth.

“Oh. Hey.” Steve caught his arm. “Call me, please. This was fun. Or—I have a better idea. I’m having a party Christmas Eve. You should come by. Unless you have plans with your sister.”

“Oh, so you do remember when Becca’s birthday is.”

Steve started and dropped Bucky’s arm like he’d been stung.

“Buck-”

He winced and held his hands up, still backing away.

“I’ll think about it. See you around, neighbour.”

Bucky turned and strode from the park, cursing himself. He hadn’t meant to do that. As he hurried off, he could hear Niamh asking why he was running away.

“God, he’s going to think I’m such a petty bitch,” he muttered, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets and glowering at the ground. 

So focussed on mentally berating himself, Bucky managed to walk straight into no less than four different people on route to the subway. He had to give himself a shake. This was ridiculous. But even as he slumped down into his seat on the train he couldn't deny that the entire encounter had left him feeling even more discombobulated than the last time. He rubbed his arm where he could still feel the way Steve had gripped him. 

He arrived home in a daze, his apartment quiet but for the buzz of the computer and the rumbling of his old boiler. It had never felt lonely before but he was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he was the only one living there, that it was only his shoes in the shoe rack and his clothes in the closet. With a huff, he let his keys clatter into the dish by the door and shuffled through to his office. Before he sat down his eye fell on his wastepaper basket and the light grey business card stuck between crumpled receipts and discarded reports. 

Bucky stood in the middle of the room and stared at it. Nothing good could come from what he was thinking about. Yet as sure as the sunset at the end of the day, desire unfurled in Bucky’s chest. He fidgeted, worrying at the hem of his shirt, scratching his thumbnail all along the bottom seam. What was the worst that could happen? He didn’t technically have anything to lose. Or at least nothing he hadn’t already lost.

With a firm nod, Bucky retrieved the card.

> **JBB to <unknown number>, 3.15pm**

> _ Sorry I had to bounce. It was good to run into you again. Hopefully see you around. B. _

It seemed that like it or not, Steve Rogers was back in Bucky’s life, and he was the poor sucker who’d welcomed him in with open arms. 


	3. time flies, messy as the mud on your truck tires

“You’re seriously telling me it was this easy all along? You’ve been holding out on me Ms. Rosenthaul St.Clare.”

Bucky glanced up from his spot on his sofa to look across to where his sister and her girlfriend were standing, shoulder to shoulder, in his kitchen. Bertie sniggered and peered into Becca’s bowl to check that she was making the matzo balls correctly because, as Bucky had found out over the course of the afternoon, there was indeed a right way and a wrong way to make them. Not that he was taking part in this endeavour. He’d been told on no uncertain terms that this was a ‘them’ thing and he was to butt out and let them take over his kitchen because it was bigger than either of theirs. 

“Bec, if I’d have told you this sooner then who’s to say that you wouldn’t have fleeced me and left me in your dust?” smiled Bernadette, nudging Becca with one of her incredibly bonny elbows. “Those are too sticky, love, you need more meal.”

Bernadette Rosenthaul St. Clare was a tall woman with wide, hooded brown eyes, warm olive toned skin, and a lot of very long brown hair that she wore up in a complicated braid. Thin in the extreme, she was all knobbly joints that belied a surprising strength owing to her time spent lugging costumes and fabric for Broadway costume shops every day. She wore a black turtleneck and a neat, dark green tartan skirt that she had managed to keep impeccably clean despite the fact that matzo meal now coated almost every surface in Bucky’s kitchen

Becca harrumphed and added the flour as instructed. Shaking his head, Bucky was just about to go back to his book when his office phone began to ring. He caught it right before it was about to ring off. 

“I’m looking for a James Barnes?” came a cool female voice down the line.

“Speaking,” he said, stifling a yawn behind the back of his hand and wandering over to the window where the late afternoon sun was beginning to set. 

“James, it’s Hope Van Dyne from Fury, Pym, and Parker, my colleague has been helping you deal with your late mother’s estate.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Of course. I’m getting in touch with you today because part of her estate is the property in Bed-Stuy. Correct?” She paused long enough for Bucky to confirm this before continuing. “Well, you see Mr Barnes, we’ve been contacted directly by a potential buyer and they have offered a substantial seven figure sum for the property, well above any potential asking price, in the hopes we may be able to expedite the process. They’re, uh, very keen to move as soon as possible.”

Bucky listened in a state of mild dissociation. He asked how much this mystery buyer was offering and the figure made his head spin. 

“And how expedited is expedited, exactly? Are we talking in the New Year, or--?”

“They would like to pick up the keys on the 26th.”

“The day after Christmas?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Bucky dropped like a lead weight into his office chair and let his head fall into his free hand. Massaging his temples, he groaned. Christmas was only a little over a week away at this point. He told Van Dyne as much.

“I understand that but as I said, they’re very keen and are willing to pay a premium for it. You don’t have to give me an answer now. I will email you some documents and you can take some time to discuss it with your sister. It’s a lot to take in.”

They said goodbye and Bucky tossed the phone onto his desk. Groaning at the ceiling, he tugged the elastic from his hair and let it fall in loose waves around his shoulders so he could massage his scalp for a minute. God, he felt tense; there was an ache in his hips and shoulders that was growing more pronounced by the day. He stretched and his back gave a loud, satisfying pop that reverberated through his chest. 

True to her word, Van Dyne emailed him all the documents which he printed and took back through to the kitchen. Matzo meal was still everywhere but he really didn’t care anymore. Becca and Bertie were at the stove top now; the smell of soup was starting to come together. 

“Who was that?” Bertie asked over her shoulder as Bucky perched on one of the island stools. 

“Lawyer.” He sounded hollow and not like himself. 

Bernadette nudged his sister and she was at his side in a second, prying the documents from him. The paper bubbled and warped from the damp heat of her hands. He’d read the proposal for himself and they would be stupid not to take it. A sum of money like that would go a long way. For both of them. His student loans still haunted him and there was a list a mile long of things they had to settle for their mom.

“I thought we’d have more time to say goodbye.” Becca leaned against him and dropped the papers to the counter. Bucky hung his head in silent agreement. 

Their childhood bedrooms were still there, mostly untouched, and filled with 30 years worth of crap. He suddenly felt very lucky that his boss had been so accommodating about everything that he didn't have to worry about all the time he'd taken off. 

In the wake of the phone call, the cosy atmosphere that had enveloped the apartment evaporated. All three of them wore the same tight, hard lined expression as they discussed how they were going to completely strip and clean the house in time. It overshadowed everything. Bucky barely tasted the soup despite the fact that it was delicious. Mentally, he was already running through yet another list of things they needed: cardboard boxes, packing tape, bleach, carpet cleaner, a man with a van, somewhere to actually store everything.

“Just bring it all here. My place is bigger than yours.” Becca opened her mouth to protest but Bucky held up a hand to silence her. They’d retreated to the living room. He was sitting on his living room floor with his back against the TV unit while Becca was on the sofa, her legs slung over Bertie’s lap. “It’ll be a problem for future Bucky. It doesn't have to be a perfect solution. It just has to work for now.”

“I’ll speak to my tati about getting a van or a truck,” Bernadette offered. “It’ll be fine. We’ll get it done.”

By the time Bucky had arrived at his ma’s brownstone the following day, after sorting out the paperwork with Van Dyne, he was filled with a grim determination and armed with more cleaning supplies than he ever had been in his life. As he stood in the hall, a brief panic washed through him. There was so much to do. But they had a plan and if they stuck to the plan then they would finish by Christmas Eve. 

Becca and Bertie weren’t coming until the afternoon so Bucky set to work on his bedroom alone. Posters of all his teenage obsessions covered the walls and that seemed like the easiest place to start. He worked in silence, tearing down posters of Muse, System of a Down, and that one poster of the International Space Station he bought on a school trip to the planetarium in the 6th grade. Once they were all down and in the garbage, the room didn’t look like his anymore. The bare walls with their sunbleached paintwork could have belonged to anyone. It helped him, in a weird sort of a way. If he didn’t think of it as his, he could work faster and not get distracted or emotional.

Next, he moved onto the desk. He must have spent hours sitting there finishing schoolwork and playing games into the wee small hours of the night but that barely registered as he began his clean up operation. The drawers were full of paper which he was sure at one time must have meant something to him but now it was just trash. The figurines, books, and trinkets went straight into boxes. There would be time at a later date to go through it. All that mattered now was getting it out of this house and back to his apartment. 

Piece by piece, Bucky packed up his childhood into neatly labelled boxes. And he felt nothing. There wasn’t a single twinge of emotion. Not when he stumbled upon the secret stash of chocolate hidden in a drawer under his bed behind the spare linens. Not when he dumped all the spare clothes still hanging in his closet into the garbage because there wasn’t a hope in hell they’d fit him anymore. Not even when he packed away the ragged, one-eyed teddy bear he’d had since he was three years old.

He wondered idly if he should feel something more. He was packing away his childhood home to be handed over to a stranger, after all. Was it just because he had no time? Or was he simply so numb after everything that had happened, that he couldn’t face any more emotional upheaval?

By the time Becca and Bertie arrived, he was almost finished. He’d even managed to get rid of the bed and the desk thanks to a quick Craigslist ad. 

“Okay, so, my tati spoke to my uncle who spoke to his wife’s cousin who spoke to their friend’s partner and there will be a man with a van here on the 23rd. Please, do not ask me any more than that.” Squinting into the middle distance, Bernadette counted the connections off on her fingers. She was in a pair of holey leggings and one of Bec’s old Foo Fighters t-shirts. 

“Uh-huh, great.” Distracted, Bucky nodded. There was a shoebox on the closet’s top shelf, right in the corner that he couldn’t quite reach. “Does he want anything for it?” he huffed, fingertips brushing against the box’s corner.

“Na. He just likes to be helpful, said he’d come by at 10 and would be around all day if we needed him.”

“I’ll--uh--get him some gingerbread as a thank you. Get the good stuff from Argo’s Bakery on Fulton.” 

With a grunt and a jump, Bucky managed to get a hand under the lip and he staggered back. The box tumbled to the floor. Photographs scattered across the carpet and a soft, ‘oh’ slipped from between Bucky’s lips. 

Drawn as if on a string, the two of them converged on the mess and crouched. Bernadette plucked one from the top of the pile and smiled. 

“That’s a good one of your mom.” 

It was. She had her arms around him and his sister and she was laughing with her head thrown back and mouth open. They were eight years old and standing in front of the Rockefeller Christmas tree and their ma had pulled their beanie hats down over their eyes. Bucky smiled. The photograph had caught them mid-wiggle, their hands clutching at their hats and trying to pull them back up but his ma was holding them in place. He remembered that night. All three of them had gone ice-skating and had come home with bruised bums, and sore faces from laughing so much.

Bertie called Becca through from the other bedroom and Bucky watched the play of emotions across her face as she joined then. She settled for a dazed curiosity that slipped, however briefly, into a watery shock as she flipped through the photos. A few tears leaked down his sister’s cheeks which she scrubbed away with the back of her hand like she didn’t want anyone to see them. So he pretended he hadn’t and averted his eyes.

Becca could only manage a minute or two before it became too much.

“I can’t do this right now,” she declared and darted from the room. Bernadette followed but not before giving Bucky’s shoulder a quick squeeze.

Moments later, loud music blared from Becca’s room to muffle the girls’ hushed voices. He would check in on his sister later. She was in good hands. 

Shifting till he sat cross-legged on the floor, Bucky continued to sift through the photographs. They spanned his childhood, right up right up until his college graduation. There he was with braces holding up a science fair ribbon. There was Becca on her first day of school. There was his ma at the beach hiding from the sun under an umbrella and a paisley print sarong. 

Oh. 

_ Oh. _

Now he felt something. 

Whatever focus had dulled his emotions and taken the sharp edge off his grief was gone. It reared up inside him, filling in every crack till it felt like he might split. Bucky cupped the back of his neck with both hands and dug his fingertips into the sensitive muscles. It sent a tingling shudder down the length of his spine. Exhaling long and slow, Bucky tried to wrestle his errant emotions back under control but it felt like an exercise in futility. 

But just as he was about to take a break and make some coffee, another photo caught his eye. He pulled it from the pile. Steve’s smiling face stared back at him. Bucky was there too, peeking out from behind his stupidly broad shoulders like some kind of lanky haired gremlin. And that wasn’t the only one of the two of them. There was a whole pile of them. 

He remembered why he’d hidden this box at the back of his closet; it had all the photos documenting their relationship. Bucky had shoved them in a shoebox and put them in a place he could forget about. At least he’d succeeded. 

Christ, did they look young. 

_ “Babies _ ,” he muttered, looking at their clean shaven faces that still held the last traces of puppy fat around the cheeks. “When did I ever look like that?”

He looked through them all, from the photobooth strips taken at bowling alleys to the blurry polaroids. There were plenty of them together, selfies taken using Steve’s long arms as leverage, but they weren’t his favourites. Even when they’d been together, Steve had loved photography and he’d taken every opportunity he could to make Bucky his subject. Those ones were the ones he liked the most. Some were candid, some were deliberately posed, some were Bucky mouthing off because he’d grown fed up of having a conversation with a camera. 

Bucky had always liked how he’d looked in Steve’s photographs. Half the time, he wasn’t even looking at the camera directly. He was looking off to the side--at the person holding it. There was something in the way that Steve captured his expression that made him not look at the acne scars on his neck or the cow’s lick in his fringe he’d always hated. He made him look like someone worth knowing: enigmatic and charming.

Swallowing, Bucky debated whether he should tell Steve he’d found them. But then he remembered there was an unanswered message on his phone that he was avoiding. It’d pinged in the night before and he saw from the notification that it was asking if Bucky was going to come over for that Christmas Eve party. Another decision that Bucky was avoiding. In his defence, he had a lot going on. Surely he couldn’t be blamed for not answering? He could and he knew it. With a sigh, he tidied the photographs away, taped the box up, and added it to the growing pile to be taken over to his apartment. Maybe he could show him later.

They worked solidly for four days. Between the three of them and the floating army of friends who dropped by to help them where they could, they packed and cleaned everything until there wasn’t a trace of the lives lived there for the past 30+ years. Becca even painted over the height chart on the back of the hall closet’s door. 

On the 23rd at 10am sharp, a chatty Puerto Rican man named Luis appeared at their door with his van. He wasn’t shy about getting stuck in and he rolled up his sleeves ready to lug boxes until long after the sun vanished from the sky.

On the morning of the 24th Bucky did one last sweep of the house, turning off all the light switches and checking nothing had been left behind. Only a rogue sweater remained and he didn’t know if it belonged to Becca or one of the friends they’d roped in to help. He stood in the living room and spun in a slow circle. There was nothing left to do but he didn’t want to leave. Leaving felt too final. It felt too much like moving on and he didn’t want to do that. At least not yet.

The house was a blank slate. Their memories didn’t exist here anymore; it was the turn of some other family. They’d had their firsts and their lasts, their smiles and their tears. Bucky sighed and thumped his fist softly into his palm. There was nothing else for it - like it or not, it was time to go.


	4. i won't ask you to wait if you don't ask me to stay

After dropping off the keys and the last of the paperwork across town at the Fury, Pym, and Parker offices, Bucky headed straight to Bernadette’s place in Crown Heights. She had a small, one bed, basement apartment that she shared with her cat. When he arrived, he saw that the couch was already made up for him and that the cat had taken up residence on top of the refrigerator. 

Becca waved when he pushed through the door but didn’t look up from her book. Her hair was mussed, the curls flat, and her eyes were puffy. 

“Happy birthday.”

“I said I didn’t want presents,” Becca sniffed, putting her book to the side and eyeing the gift that Bucky had just pulled from his bag like it was a threat to her life.

“No, you said, you didn’t want  _ Christmas _ presents. Which, by the way, we both agreed to. This is a birthday present. There’s a difference.” He flapped it under her nose and chucked it into her lap when she didn’t move. “Take it.”

“I hate you.” 

“I know. Quit your bitchin’ and open it.”

She gave him a sullen look and with a put upon air, she peeled the tape from the paper. Bucky flopped back onto the couch, rolling his shoulders to get comfortable. 

“Oh.” Becca’s lip quivered. “You didn’t.”

“You like it?”

He’d seen a triple frame while passing a thrift store and framed some of the forgotten photographs. Right there in the middle was the one of them and their ma at Rockefeller Centre. Wiping her nose with the heel of her hand, Becca nodded. 

“Thanks, Buck.”

Instead of answering, he opened his arms and beckoned her forward. Like a puppet with its strings cut, she slid from the armchair onto the sofa and curled up next to him. He felt her body expand and deflate against him as she heaved an almighty sigh.

“I hate her not being here,” she mumbled into his chest.

Bucky didn’t have to see her face to know just how screwed up it would be. He leaned his chin on top of his sister’s head, her curls ticking the bottom of his nose.

“I know. Me too.”

They sat there in silence for a few minutes and let the hum of the building fill it. Their perfect little unit was only disturbed when Bucky went to check the time on his phone and saw that he had a message from Steve. He’d fended off most of the messages about the party (because Bucky was a goddamn coward) and they had started talking about their favourite holiday movies instead.

> **_From Steve to JBB, 4:52pm_ **

> Thanks for the recommendation. Niamh loved it. Reckon that snags me the Dad of the Year award tbh.

“You gonna go tonight?”

Bucky hitched his shoulder and wrinkled his nose. Did he really have to give an answer to that? Because he didn’t have one.

“Maybe? I dunno. I thought we had plans?”

“Please, my plans include being miserable, watching a movie, and maybe, if I’m lucky, making out with my girlfriend.” Becca straightened and ruffled her hair. “At least one of us should have some fun tonight.”

“But it’s Steve.”

“And it sounds like Steve wants to see you.” Unable to detangle the snarl of Steve-related feelings in his chest enough to answer, Bucky stayed silent. “You know, normally, I’d still be salty about how everything went down but, currently, I feel like a bruise, so I say you should go. Eat. Drink. Be merry. Do whatever it is that people are supposed to do at Christmas parties.”

“But--”

Becca pressed a hand to his mouth and she looked him dead in the eye.

“Make it up to me next year and throw me a big, fuck off 30th. This year is cancelled.”

And who was he to argue with that? So he nodded, his sister patted him on the head like he was damn dog, and the matter was settled.

  
Four hours later, Bucky was dithering on the street in front of Steve’s building. He felt underdressed. Except that wasn’t really it, was it. He looked fine. The black dress shirt and jeans were tried and tested. That wasn’t the issue. The issue was that he felt like he was about to jump straight into shark infested waters covered in chum. 

Even from the street, he could see the lights from Steve’s apartment and the froing of bodies inside. 

He had to get it together. Tugging on his jacket collar and smoothing his hands over his deliberately tousled hair, Bucky crossed the street.

“Geronimo,” he muttered. There was no going back.

From behind the door he could hear the chatter of voices overtop Christmas music and no sooner had his knuckles touched the wood, was the door thrown open. Steve filled the doorway, his shocked expression giving way to delight in seconds. 

“Bucky! You came!” he cried and pulled him into a tight hug. 

They came together with a solid thump and Bucky didn’t miss the way Steve’s shoulders bent in towards him. It put his face squarely in the crook of Steve’s neck and  _ god _ did he smell good. The bastard. He was everywhere one second, then the next he was pulling back and sliding a hand down his chest saying how great it was he’d come and that he looked amazing. 

“Th-thanks,” stuttered Bucky, taken aback by the sudden onslaught of affection. “You look gr--are those velvet?”

Bucky had caught sight of Steve’s pants and going by the way he was rubbing the back of his neck and smiling sheepishly, he really was wearing teal velvet pants. They sat low on his hips and that was almost enough to distract him from the off-white cable knit jumper that clung to his shoulders in a way that screamed, ‘look at me’, and Bucky sure was compelled to do just that. Ex or not, he was only human. Steve grinned, clapped him on the back and began steering him towards the living room.

“Can I get you a drink? Here, you gotta let me introduce you to everyone. Man, I’m so glad you’re here.”

Steve kept up this stream of consciousness as he toted him around introducing him to everyone like he was the prize turkey at the county fair. Bucky said his hellos. He recognised Sam, of course, who shook his hand and gave him a brisk hug, and Natasha, who flashed him an impish smile. She knew exactly how out of his depth he was. 

There was a part of him, a very insistent part of him, that was yelling for him to go. It was the part that remembered the hurt and wanted nothing more than to protect him from any more. Yet as he stood there, with a glass of something dark and smokey pressed into his hand, looking at the way Steve radiated with joy--joy from him being there--Bucky found that it grew quieter, and that he didn’t want to leave at all. 

With that realisation, he relaxed. He could laugh and make jokes with Sam and rib Natasha like he used to. He even got chatting to a few of Steve’s other friends that he didn’t know and who were all perfectly charming and didn’t question him too hard on how he knew Steve in the first place. 

The man in question was never far from Bucky’s sights either. He was always only ever a few paces away, ready to refill his drink if necessary or catch his eye with a waiting smile. Any time Steve had to squeeze past him, his hand was there on his arm, his shoulder, his lower back with the lightest touch that set a fire under Bucky’s skin. By the fourth time, he couldn’t help but lean back into his hand and he was sure he heard Steve sigh. His body wanted to follow him and his eyes weren’t doing much better. 

He had to get out.

Excusing himself, Bucky slipped from the living room and into the hall. He sagged against the kitchen doorway and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Some kind soul had opened the window and chilled air blasted through the hallway. Bucky pressed his glass to his forehead but the single ice cube floating in his drink, half-melted, did jack shit. 

He’d thought tonight would be a good distraction but maybe he’d underestimated the depth to which Steve wanted to get to know him again. 

“I wouldn’t stand there if I were you.” Bucky spun, heart jumping, to see Natasha Romanoff sidling up to him. 

“Now why would I do that?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Natasha smirked and used her glass to gesture above Bucky’s head. He baulked and darted to her side. A bunch of mistletoe tied with a red ribbon was taped to the top of the door frame. That was the last thing he needed. With the way Steve had been looking at him, he didn’t trust that he wouldn’t make good on the tradition. And with the way Bucky was feeling, he didn’t trust himself enough not to resist. Still smirking, Natasha drew closer. She leaned against the wall and Bucky caught a blast of whatever richly spiced perfume she wore. 

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“You are most welcome, James.”

“You could call me Bucky, given that literally everybody else does.”

“Oh, we have  _ never _ had that kind of relationship. Why kill a good thing and start now?”   


“Glad to see you’re still an unbridled asshole, Romanoff.”

Natasha bared her teeth in an approximation of a smile but Bucky suspected that she had actually taken that as a compliment.

“If you’re looking for someone to be your pal, find Sam, I’m sure he’d entertain you for ten minutes. Or better yet? Find  _ Steve _ .” Natasha took a sip of her drink and gave Bucky a knowing look which he pretended he didn’t see, too busy looking at the plummy lipstick imprints along the side of her glass. It held something amber, dark. Rum probably. 

As it was, Bucky knew exactly where Steve was. He could hear him laughing with Sam in the next room and Bucky knew just the way he’d be throwing his head back and clutching his chest. Laughter was a full body affair with Steve and it was gravitational in its pull. Even from his spot in the hall, he could feel it. It took everything he had not to move, to keep his feet planted firmly next to Natasha. 

Steve had always been like the sun; blinding in his intensity and deliciously warm in his care. No wonder people were drawn to him. 

“I’m glad you came. It’s good to see you again,” said Natasha in a softer voice, drawing him back to her. Bucky opened his mouth to say something but nothing came. Instead, he smiled and bobbed his head.

Natasha pushed off the wall and downed whatever was left in her glass. “Now--” she fixed him in her crosshairs “--why don’t you ‘buy’ me a drink?”

And with that, she pulled him through to the living room where she instructed him to mix them both a Long Island Iced Tea. Bucky had always been a shit mixologist but it was a passable attempt. Drinks in hand, Natasha inserted them into a circle of conversation by the fireplace where a fire flickered behind the glass, and somehow he found himself standing next to Steve. When he looked at Romanoff across the circle, she smirked and shrugged. 

The party continued and at midnight, they all wished each other a Merry Christmas. Bucky didn’t think twice about pulling Steve to him, of sinking just a little a bit further into his arms. He knew he was being reckless. He knew that he could so easily be setting himself up for a fall but every smile thrown his way warmed him through till he was thrumming. And it felt  _ good. _ It felt like a weight had been lifted. If only for that single, shining moment.

One by one, people drifted away with bleary eyes and woozy smiles until it was just them. Natasha and Sam were last to leave, stumbling down the stairs to their waiting Uber. Bucky listened to them go from the living room. When Steve came back, he found him standing by the fireplace looking at the family photographs.

“Where was the little one tonight?” he asked as Steve drew level with his shoulder. 

“She’s with Lorr. I’ll swing by in the morning before going to my ma’s.” There was no inflection in Steve’s voice; he sounded very matter of fact. He padded across to the drinks table and poured himself another whisky. Bucky declined when he offered him the bottle. 

“You don’t mind being alone on Christmas morning?” 

Steve had sat down on the sofa and Bucky joined him. Instead of answering, he took a sip. But then he seemed to reconsider.

“Na. I like the quiet. Let’s me get amped up to make it extra special for Niamh.”

There was a pause and Bucky sank further into the cushions.

“How did you end up with a kid?” He said it with a sigh to the ceiling. It wasn’t really a question. It wasn’t really even a statement. It was him trying to reconcile the two Steves he had in his head: the one who he’d met when they were so unbearably young, and the fire-soaked one on the sofa next to him.

“Weird, right?” Steve chuckled. “It was a happy accident, I suppose. Cryptic pregnancy.”

Bucky’s head lolled to the side and he stared, mouth hanging open.

“What, and I say this with the utmost respect, the fuck.”

“It’s more common than you’d think.”

“But still.”

Steve shrugged and continued to stare at the ceiling. 

“We weren’t even together that long. Coupla months at most before she got a job offer with the D.A. in Chicago.”

“You didn’t want to try long distance?”

“Naw. God’s honest truth? It was a rebound. We were having fun and I—I wasn’t really over you.”

Bucky swallowed, shifted in place, and studied Steve’s profile, unable to look away.

“She didn’t even know she was pregnant until she was bent over her bath in the worst pain of her life. Said she thought it was indigestion at first. Would you believe that she sent her roommate out to get some antacids and by the time she came back there was a bloody baby screaming at the top of her lungs?”

Bucky watched him speak, propping his head up on his fist and ignoring the twinge in his belly.

“Then what happened?”

“She came back to the city, moved back in with her ma. Told me too, of course.”

“Did ya try to marry her?” Bucky smirked and nudged Steve’s thigh with his knee. He kept it there because--well, he didn’t quite know why.

Steve cringed and swiped his hands over his face. “Tried being the operative word.”

“You know folks don’t need to do that these days. Didn’t anyone mention that?”

“I thought it was the right thing to do.” When he caught Bucky’s look, he threw his hands in the air. “Okay, I panicked.”

“Good thing she had more sense than you.”

“We worked it out.” Silence drifted between them. Steve’s hand fell to Bucky’s knee, the one still pressed into the side of his thigh. “You know, this is nice—having you here. I missed this. Missed you. Missed us.”

And with that, the moment was gone. Whatever fragile thing that had started to build, was broken. Shaking his head, Bucky drew back and his lip curled.

“Steve, don’t. You don’t get to say shit like that.”

The hand on his thigh retreated but the heat remained.

“I—yeah. I guess you’re right.”

“You broke up with me. On Christmas Eve. At my little sister’s 21st birthday party. Over the phone,” Bucky continued, the force in his voice rising with every word. “And it fucking sucked.”

It needed to be said. They couldn’t flirt and dance their way around this forever. This, Bucky realised, was the sticking point. This was why he hadn’t been able to just fall back in beside him, no matter how much Steve clearly wanted it. No matter how much Bucky himself wanted it. There were so many things they still had to say to one another, and Bucky would be damned if he didn’t get to say his piece. 

“I wouldn’t blame you if you’re still angry.”

Bucky shook his head. His anger had long since dissipated but the old phantom pain had remained.

“Not anymore. But I almost drove myself mad wondering why because all you gave me was the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ bullshit as if that would explain anything.”

Still not looking at him, Steve said, “So ask me why.”

“Urgh, Steve, come on.”

“No, I’m serious Buck. Ask me why.” And Steve sat up and turned to face him. He looked angelic with the firelight stoking across his cheeks and turning him golden.

Bucky narrowed his eyes at him and weighed his options. It could be horrible. It could be all the worst things he’d ever thought: too clingy, too needy, too unlovable. But then why would he tell him to ask? Why after all of this would he want to subject Bucky to something horrible? 

He swallowed and dropped his gaze to his lap, before glancing back up at him through his lashes. Steve had coiled himself tight again. It looked like he was preparing for a fight. Not with Bucky, that much was obvious, but maybe with himself. He was ready for anything. 

“Why.”

Wetting his bottom lip, Bucky steeled himself. Steve took a breath.

“Because I was scared and I was stupid. I was scared because I was so young and it felt like what we had was  _ it _ for me. It all felt so big and unmanageable, and I didn’t know how to tell you or even ask you how you felt because I couldn’t bear the thought of actually having the balls to ask only to hear you say that you didn’t feel the same way. So I . . . Well, I hurt you before you could hurt me.”

“Aww fuck you, Steve. It had been four years. I was all in.” Bucky’s words tasted sour and he leaned back, away from Steve’s golden glow. “I was all in from the start. Four years, Steve. Four. And how do you end it? Over the fucking phone.  _ That’s _ the thing I couldn’t get over. Four years and all those plans and dreams and you couldn’t give me the respect, no, the courtesy, to say it to my face? I could feel you running away before you were even gone. Do you have any idea how much that hurt? ”

“I’m sorry,” whispered Steve. Bucky scoffed. “I . . . I just knew I couldn’t have done it face to face. I wouldn’t have been able to say the words, or if I did, then I couldn’t stand to see you look at me the way you are now.” Steve laid a hand on top of Bucky’s. “But you’re here. We’re here. Doesn’t this feel like a second chance?”

Bucky felt like he was falling. He was lightheaded and too hot. Steve’s hand burned against his.

“No,” he said, standing, extracting himself, trying to put as much distance between the two of them as possible. His voice shook. “This isn’t happening. You have this whole life that you built without me, the kind of life I would have given anything to have shared with you, and you don’t get to just slot me back in when it’s convenient.” 

He backed up, barely even registering the hurt on Steve’s face. “News flash, I have a life too, you know. And things have happened in it that you weren’t there for. So, no. I think I should go. Merry Christmas, Steve.”

He tore from the apartment without a backwards glance. Steve called after him but it fell on deaf ears. Staggering out onto the street with a gasp as the cold air froze his lungs, Bucky fled into night right as the first snow began to fall.


	5. the only soul who can tell which smiles I'm fakin'

Bucky walked for six blocks before the fire in him dulled enough for him to realise there was no way he could walk all the way back to Crown Heights. Collapsing onto a bench, he ordered an Uber. His chin rested on his heaving chest. The weight of the day sat heavy across his shoulders.

What had he been thinking?

After the week he’d had? After the  _ day  _ he’d had? How could he have thought waltzing into his ex’s apartment for a party would go well? And not just any ex. This was  _ Steve _ . 

Bucky buried his face in his hands. Eight years and he still melted when he smiled in his direction. Eight years and he was ready to just fall back into place like nothing had happened. So much for moving on. 

The taste of iron lingered hot and restrictive at the back of his throat the whole way back to Crown Heights. He sat slumped in the bar of the car, arms folded, and willed himself not to cry. He should have just stayed in with Bec and let himself feel his feelings instead of running off. But it was too late now. There was no shame in it. After all, there were a lot of things he was entitled to cry about.

The apartment was quiet when he slipped in, Becca and Bertie having long since gone to bed. He stripped and swaddled himself in blankets on the sofa. But from the moment his head touched the pillow, the encroaching feeling of tiredness that had started to weigh him down vanished. 

Bucky didn’t sleep a wink. He tossed and turned: thinking about Steve, thinking about his ma, thinking about how much of a sucky Christmas this was. Maybe he’d brought it on himself for even entertaining the thought that he could somehow reconnect with Steve. The universe had thrown them back together just to watch them combust.

The hours ticked by until, at exactly 6am, Bucky sat up and called it quits. The cause had been lost long before he’d even laid down. He dressed and left the apartment, making sure to close the door quietly behind him. 

He set a brisk pace and it took him a little over half an hour to get to where he needed to be.

“Hey, ma,” he murmured, looking down at the neat, black granite headstone. After the previous night’s snow, there was a light dusting of white across the top. He pulled his jacket closer and tucked his chin into the collar to keep the wind off his neck. Stray hairs had escaped his ponytail and they whipped across his cheeks. “Merry Christmas.”

The cemetery was quiet, calm. A breeze rustled through the bare trees and they groaned in response. As he stood there, Bucky wished he’d brought something for her, a wreath or some flowers, but all he had in his pockets were his phone and a half finished packet of gum. Mostly, he wished that she was there with him. He sighed and his breath fogged.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

A hand found its way into his. Bucky closed his eyes for a second and leaned into the familiar presence. Looking down, he saw Becca at his side, a sad, resigned smile on her face. In her other hand, she held a holly wreath which she placed gently against the stone. Bucky tightened his grip till their arms pressed together and his sister was a reassuring line of warmth down his right side.

“How’d last night go?” Becca asked, laying head against his shoulder.

“Don’t want to talk about it,” he rasped. It still felt too raw, too exposed. Against his arm, Becca nodded. 

“When do you think this gets easier?”

“After we’ve had all our firsts without her, I suppose.”

His sister hummed.

They stood there together, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, for several minutes. Neither of them particularly wanted to leave but eventually, the chill became too much to bear and they started back towards Crown Heights. The air of melancholy followed them the whole way home. It only began to lift when Bernadette met them at the door and pressed two steaming mugs of coffee into their hands with an understanding smile. 

For the rest of the day, they watched questionable action movies from the 80s in a pile on the sofa. Somewhere around 11:30, Becca suggested they spike their coffee and by mid-afternoon they were all woozy smiles and bleary eyes. It wasn’t the sort of day that Bucky was used to, but it was enough.

~*~

“I give up!” Bucky snapped, hopping on one foot and glowering at the offending stack of boxes blocking his hallway, toe throbbing. “Third time today, Jesus, fuck.”

His apartment was a goddamn mess. Bags and boxes were everywhere and it made even walking from his office to his kitchen a hazard. 

“Future Bucky’s problem, indeed,” he muttered. “Next time, keep your big fat mouth shut, Barnes.”

Mood soured, he decided that, fuck it, he wanted some real coffee. In the week between Christmas and New Year's, he figured Friday’s would be quiet enough that he’d be able to nip in and out and make it back in time to do a bit more work before dinner. As he hurried down the street, jacket pulled tight around him, he really hoped that he wouldn’t run into Steve. 

They hadn’t spoken since the party but there had been a message on Christmas Day with an apology. Between the booze and the sleep deprivation, Bucky had been too out of it to even consider replying. Now that it had been a further three days since then, he wondered if he could reply at all. 

As expected, the diner was quiet and a few patrons he recognised gave him a wave. He decided to grab a bite as well since his fridge was laughably empty. Humming along to ‘Last Christmas’, Bucky took a seat by the window to wait for his food. He could happily people watch for hours, but he managed no more than two minutes when he felt a tug on his sleeve and found him looking into a pair of strikingly familiar blue eyes. 

“Niamh, hey.” Surprise coloured his voice and his eyebrows shot up.

“Hiya, Bucky,” Niamh beamed, her cheeks very red. 

“Are you here with your mom? Or your dad?” As he spoke, Bucky glanced around the diner, looking for anyone that looked like Lorraine but came up short. No Steve either. Would be hard to miss those shoulders.

“They’re not here.”

Well, shit. Bucky’s heart sank.

“What do you mean ‘not here’?” he asked the girl slowly. Her blue eyes were wide and glossy, expression gone serious. “Did you come out on your own?”

“I came to find you.”

Not expecting that as an answer, Bucky slid out of his seat to crouch at eye level with the girl. “Why’s that?” Bucky asked, placing his hands on her shoulders and seeking out her downcast gaze. She was chewing her bottom lip ragged. 

“Because Daddy’s sad,” she said. “I heard him talking to Mommy, Auntie Nat, and Uncle Sam. He said he misses you but that you’re mad at him, that you won’t talk to him, and that he wanted you to come back but that you wouldn’t come. So, I came to get you. ”

Niamh had such a downtrodden and earnest look on her face that Bucky thought he could hear his heart break at such a sight. “Sweetheart, I’m not mad at your dad. I promise.”

“Then you have to go cheer him up so he’s not sad anymore.”

“Okay. okay. Let’s get you home.” Bucky stood and looked around the diner. On his second pass, he realised that he was looking for someone to help him. He was looking for an adult. But that would be him.  _ He _ was the adult. It was a sobering thought. “Did you come straight here?”

Niamh brightened. Her whole face lit up as she grinned.

“I looked at the park too. I went on the subway by myself.”

Bucky blinked, dumbstruck. “You went to the park?”

Nodding with the earnest enthusiasm only a child can possess, Niamh said, “I used Daddy’s subway card.”

Christ. Bucky shut his eyes for a second and heaved a sigh. Niamh continued chatting at him but it was hard to concentrate when his stomach was churning like this. Suddenly he wasn’t hungry at all. He swallowed, once, twice, three times, and tried to get a clear head. His throat was tight and there was a golf ball sized lump making it real hard to swallow. Steve’s apartment was only a few minutes walk from Friday’s. At least he could drop her back off to her parents quickly and in one piece. 

“So, will you be able to make my dad happy again?” 

The girl lifted her chin, defiant. She wasn’t accepting anything less than a yes. Bucky softened and smiled, patting her on the shoulder.

“I can only try. I’m sure he’ll be happier to see you home safe. They’ll be worried sick.”

Despite the tightness in his chest, Bucky kept his face light and clear. There was no need to spook her. He paid his bill and led Niamh out onto the sidewalk. 

“I’m just going to give your dad a call, okay?” 

She nodded at him and slid her hand into his. It felt tiny and breakable and her fingers were freezing. Bucky wondered just how long she’d been away from home. Shoving that thought aside, he dialled Steve’s number and braced himself.

He picked up on the second ring.

“Bucky? I’m sorry, I can’t talk right now. I’m sorry. I--”

“I have something that belongs to you,” he said and passed the phone to Niamh who chirruped a bright, “Hello, Daddy!” down the phone. 

Bucky tried to read her face to get an idea of what Steve was saying but the same little half smile stayed firmly in place. After several assurances that she was okay, she passed the phone back to him. When he raised the receiver back to his ear, he could hear Steve pacing and breathing heavily in through his nose and out through his mouth. 

“Where are you? I’ll come and get her.” He sounded tight, like he might break with only the slightest push.

Bucky shushed him, giving Niamh’s hand a quick squeeze to make sure she was okay and she started playing a game of ‘How Hard Could She Squeeze His Hand Back’. It was sweet.

“Don’t bother. We’re standing outside Friday’s. Stay where you are. I’ll bring her to you.”

Steve let out a shaky exhale that rattled the receiver.

“Okay. Urgh--Lorr, Nat, and Sam are out looking. I need to phone them, tell them to call off the search.” Bucky heard him swallow. “Shit. Thanks, Buck.”

“She’ll be back with you in five, ten minutes tops.”

Once he was off the phone, Niamh launched straight into a vivid description of everything she had done for Christmas. She hung off his arm, skipping along and making broad sweeping motions with her free hand as they walked. It was hard not to be charmed. Bucky asked her a few questions here and there but mostly, she was happy to talk and he was happy to listen. 

It didn’t take them long to reach Steve’s building. As they climbed the stairs, Bucky could hear someone pacing in the hallway. They crested the stairs to Steve’s floor and there he was, hands on hips, shoulders hitched up around his ears, cutting back and forth in front of his door. When he caught sight of them, relief broke across his face. 

“Niamh! Oh, thank God you’re okay. Come here. I was so worried.” He started towards them, dropping to his knees and drawing his daughter close to his chest. His eyes were red and puffy, his face blotchy. He buried his face in his daughter’s hair, pressing kiss after kiss into the top of her head. “Don’t you ever wander off like that again, do you hear me.”

“But!”

“No buts. Anything could have happened to you.” He sounded raw and Bucky knew he must have run through every horrible scenario from the minute he noticed his daughter had disappeared.

Niamh scowled at him.“I had to find Bucky.”

Steve looked up at him then, searching and confused. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curled up. It looked like Steve was going to say something to him but then shook his and stood, propelling Niamh towards the apartment.

“Go inside and hang your jacket up. Your mom will be back to pick you up in a minute.” 

She gave him a quick hug around the middle before trotting off. They watched her disappear inside the apartment. The second she was out of sight, Steve balled his fists in his hair and shuddered. It was only now that Bucky was able to get a good look at him. And he looked like shit. His hair was rumpled, sticking up at all angles, his cardigan was buttoned all wrong, and there was coffee staining one leg of his sweatpants. 

“You’ll want to get your subway card back. She swiped it from your pocket,” Bucky told him, touching a finger to his elbow.

“My--?  _ Fuck _ . She took my card? You know what? Not important. Thank you, Buck.” Their eyes met. Steve was frayed to his last edge. He was unravelling in front of him and he didn’t know how to stop it. How to make it better. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if--”

And with a final shudder, he broke. He crumpled, knees buckling, but without even thinking, Bucky caught him. It was instinctual. He held him close, taking all his weight. Steve’s shoulders shook, a litany of ‘what if, what if, what if’ garbled into Bucky’s chest.

“Shh, Stevie, don’t even go there,” Bucky murmured, stroking his back. Steve went loose. “It’s okay. She’s okay. She just wanted to talk to me.”

It took a minute for what he’d said to register. Steve pulled back, a question written across his tear stained face. Softening, Bucky tightened an arm around him and brushed a few tears away.

“She seemed to think you missed me and that if she brought me here then it would get you smiling again.”

Steve dropped his forehead onto Bucky’s shoulder. 

“Aww fuck. That kid is too smart for her own good sometimes.”

“Come on, let’s get inside. You need to sit down, get cleaned up.”

Bucky sat Steve down in the kitchen and plied him with the hottest, strongest cup of tea he could make. If his ma had taught him anything over the years it was that a bad situation usually looked better after a cup of tea. He checked on Niamh too. She was busy in her room, surrounded by dolls and engrossed in a game. 

Compared to the last time he’d been here, Steve’s apartment was much messier. There were toys lurking underfoot, always just out of sight, and the couch cushions were rumpled like they’d recently been pulled off to make a fort. It was homey, lived in.

Not ten minutes after setting Steve down with his tea, Lorraine came bursting through the door. She was flushed, eyes wild, and her hair dishevelled, falling out of what had once been an artfully ruffled bun. Bucky could tell, because he was currently sporting the very same look. She barrelled straight towards Steve, not sparing Bucky even a passing glance, practically skidding to a stop in front of him.

“Is she okay? Nothing happened to her? Steve, tell me she’s okay, please.”

“Yeah, Lorr, she’s fine,” Steve sighed. “She’s in her room playing like nothing happened. She went to find Bucky and he brought her home.”

Lorraine turned, tears shimmering in her eyes, and of all the ways Bucky had thought he’d have come face to face with her, this wouldn’t have even made the top 100. Her beautiful face crumpled and she launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck and hanging on for dear life. Bucky stumbled with a soft ‘oof’ but caught them before they went crashing into the counter. With only a second’s hesitation, he returned the hug, pulling her close. She trembled and Bucky could feel a wet patch starting to grow against his shoulder. He shushed her gently, just as he’d done for Steve. 

After a moment, she extracted herself from his arms and gave herself a shake. She shot him a watery smile.

“Oh, my--I’m sorry. Thank you for bringing my baby home.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Lorraine was a whirlwind. She paused to talk to Steve long enough to check he was okay then she left, taking Niamh home with her which left Bucky with a still shell-shocked Steve. He hadn’t really moved from his chair since Bucky had planted him there. 

Bucky didn’t want to leave him alone like this, so he kept himself busy. There were a few dishes in the sink, so he washed them. There was a load of laundry in the machine which he transferred to the dryer. The garbage needed to be taken out. Bucky sorted everything, all these small tasks, so that Steve wouldn’t have to. He’d done these things before for him, in another life, and although he knew that door was closed, he sensed that another other one would open if only he was to say the word.

Steve broke his silence when Bucky was washing his hands after a trip out to the garbage chute.

“Thank you for today. I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t here.”

“Crashed and burned.”

There was a chuckle from behind him and Bucky turned, leaning a hip against the counter as he dried his hands. 

“You didn’t have to do any of this.”

“I wanted to.” Bucky cast a glance around the kitchen. “Do you need me to do anything else?” Steve shook his head. “Well, then I guess I’ll head. Call me if you need anything. I’m not far away.”

He shot Steve a small smile and started to make his way towards the door when--

“I still love you.”

He froze and turned, slowly to face him. Steve was on his feet, one hand stretched out towards him. The words hung in the air, deafening in the silence that now encompassed them.

“Steve . . .” 

It sounded like a warning but Bucky knew it wasn’t. He swallowed, fingers flexing at his sides. His throat tightened and he could hear a roaring in his ears. His whole body pulsed with every frantic beat of his patchwork heart.

Was this actually happening? Steve thrummed with energy, leaning forward on the balls of his feet towards Bucky like he wanted to close the gap between them. His shoulders had crept up again and his forehead creased.

“I know I’ve fucked up, hurt you, but can we start over?” he asked. “I know we can’t really have a blank slate like we did before but there’s a place for you here. If you want it.”

Bucky swept a hand over his face. Each word from Steve’s mouth was the sweetest kind of hurt. They twisted through him and left him wanting more. Because he  _ did _ want more. He could see the kind of life they could have together. That door was well and truly open to him now. It didn’t matter how long it had been, Bucky knew that he still loved Steve too, but what he said was:

“Your life is . . . complicated.”

Because he had to be sure that his place at the table was a genuine offer. 

“It doesn’t have to be. Niamh already thinks you’re great, otherwise today would have never happened. An’, hell, Lorr will love you for today alone. We could make it work.”

“Steve, it’s been eight years,” said Bucky, softly. 

Wincing, Steve took a hesitant step towards him. “I shoulda said something sooner, I know that. But I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me. Figured you’d tell me to go fuck myself.”

Bucky huffed, ran a hand through his hair. “Up until last month, you probably woulda been right.”

Their eyes met from across the kitchen. Steve wrung his hands, nodding. Crestfallen. Bucky swallowed and wet his bottom lip. 

“Are you really serious about this?” 

“I’d give ya anythin’. Anythin’ at all. If you let me.”

And goddammit, with the way Steve was looking at him now, with his splotchy face and hedgerow hair, Bucky believed him.

His breath shuddered in his chest. Energy rippled through his muscles and he had to move. He couldn't stay still. Bucky turned, hands clasped behind his head. But then he saw it and he stilled. In the days since the party it had wilted a little but it was still fit for purpose. Bucky took a few steps and planted himself in the kitchen doorway. 

“Then kiss me.”

Confusion writ large across Steve’s face, he cocked his head but Bucky pointed up and his expression cleared into one of those big, beautiful Stevie smiles. Bucky grinned right back, beckoning him forward. Not needing to be told twice, he joined him under the mistletoe and settled his hands on Bucky’s hips. All the tension in his muscles melted away. He gazed at Steve, searching his face for any hint that this wasn’t exactly what he wanted and found only the love he’d so readily proclaimed.

“I’m in, if you’re in.  _ All _ in,” Bucky said. He paused, knowing that what he was about to say next would change everything between them. “Because I love you too. Always have.”

Steve’s hands tightened on his hips and he closed his eyes for just a moment, leaning into Bucky like his words were a balm. Bucky slid his hands up and over Steve’s chest until they rested on the back of his neck. He leaned in, eyes flicking to Steve’s bitten red lips.

“I’m gonna kiss you now. That alright?”

“Can’t think of anything I want more.”

Bucky cupped his hand to Steve’s cheek and he leaned into the touch, eyes already closed. He paused. The moment stretched, twisted in a kaleidoscope of dizzying sensation. Underneath his fingers, Steve’s pulse beating out a snare drum rhythm. Bucky took a deep breath and closed the gap between them, their lips meeting in a tender, almost hesitant kiss. 

Kissing Steve felt like coming home: familiar and warm. He knew they had a long way to go, that there was more they had to rediscover about one another. But that would come later. For now, this was all he needed. This was all he wanted. 

They broke apart, noses brushing. Bucky made a low, contented noise and pressed his lips to Steve’s again. Just because he could. But as he drew back, he saw that Steve’s eyes were filled with tears once more. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, stroking his cheek.

“Nothin’. I just love you,” breathed Steve and he kissed him again. “I love you so damn much.”

Bucky grinned and settled back into Steve’s arms. “I love you, too.”

Somethings, Bucky knew, were just meant to be and this, this moment here with Steve, was one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, we're done. 
> 
> Happy Christmas, if you celebrate it, and I hope that the remainder of your year is calm and peaceful and full of all the good things you all deserve.  
> Now, if you don't mind, I'm off to binge watch The Mandalorian and knit myself a jumper. 
> 
> See you all in the New Year where there will be many adventures still to come.
> 
> Untill then, find me on tumblr [@martelldoran](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com/).


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